


Graveyard Hymns

by themcgeek



Series: October 2014 Daily Writing Challenge [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brother Feels, Gen, Minor Character Death, October Daily Writing Theme, POV Minor Character, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader-Insert, Talking, castiel (mentioned) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themcgeek/pseuds/themcgeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 2: Graveyard Thrills</p>
<p>You open your eyes to darkness, and reach up to your face to double check the position of your lids. Blackness presses in at you from all corners, and you feel the flutter of your lashes against your fingertips.You hear it, too. Just the tiniest scritching noise, like a butterfly taking flight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graveyard Hymns

**Author's Note:**

> This is, as of original posting, entirely unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.

You open your eyes to darkness, and reach up to your face to double check the position of your lids. Blackness presses in at you from all corners, and you feel the flutter of your lashes against your fingertips.You hear it, too. Just the tiniest scritching noise, like a butterfly taking flight.

 

For a minute, it’s the only sound you hear. It’s at that point you realize you aren’t really breathing. The epiphany should probably alarm you a bit more than it actually does.

 

Muffled voices filter to your ears, and it sounds like they’re muffled by cotton, kind of how it sounds when you scream into a pillow. Every other word or so is punctuated by the bass drum beat of footsteps approaching you.When it seems like they are right on top of you, the footsteps stop, but the voices don’t.

 

Since there is really nowhere to go but up, you begin clawing your way to the voices that rise and fall like the ocean. As you claw through the satin, padding, and wood, your fingernails break and shatter, and blood tickles you as it drips off your elbow. The nails grow back almost as fast as the break, but the blood doesn’t seem to end. A steady dripping becomes your new metronome.

 

The darkness becomes more translucent as dirt falls in around you. Eventually, finally, you feel the coolness of a nighttime breeze against your bloodied fingertips.

 

“--it, Sammy. There’s nothing to talk about.” The voice crashes into your ears, rough and loud, and you suck in a startled breath. You smell, you taste, everything. Sweat. Decay. Blood (yours). Blood (not yours). All this and a million things more, and your head spins with it.

 

“Bull shit, Dean. This is hell we’re talking about, here.” Another voice, higher and plaintive. If they’ve noticed your forearms sticking out of the ground, they haven’t given any indication.

 

“No fucking kidding, and no fucking way. This isn’t happening.”

 

“But it did! It did. You sold your soul, and you went to hell, and now you’re back. You’ve been back. And you haven’t said jack shit about it except to tell me that you were there for forty fucking years. A year ago.”

 

“Shut up, Sam. It’s time to get to work. Looks like we’ve got a live one.”

 

“Not so sure about the ‘live’ part.”

 

“Shut up, Sam.”

 

Bracing your elbows on the solid earth beside you, you haul your head and shoulders from a terran embrace. You’ve stopped breathing again, scent and taste overwhelming. But now you can see. Seated on a headstone in front of you are two men with matching scowls. Something thrums through you, and you lurch forward. Neither of them move.

 

And neither, really, do you.

 

As hard as you try to pull yourself up, something seems to pull equally hard at your ankle.

 

“Um, Dean?” The floppy haired one’s prominent forehead is creased in a frown.

 

“Mmm,” the other one intones noncommittally as he pulls out a wicked looking blade from a sheath on his hip.

 

Machete, your subconscious helpfully supplies.

 

“I think it’s...stuck.”

 

The slightly shorter one pauses from where he’d began to advance on you. The tension that had been pinching his eyes is released as he lets out an undignified snort.

 

“So it is. Poor bastard was buried, and now this? Damn, we’re going to be doing it a courtesy. Not sure how I feel about that.” The smile stretched across his face is cold, and chills you more thoroughly than the icy wind that is tangling rusty orange oak leaves in your hair.

 

“Well, it’s not exactly going anywhere…”

 

“Ohhhhh no. Nuh uh. You are not using a stuck bloodsucker as an excuse for more misty-eyed boy talk. It ain’t happening, Sammy.” He begins to charge forward, right arm raising menacingly.

 

The way the other one, the Sam one, gallops forward to stop his companion reminds you strongly of a moose you saw once on National Geographic.

 

“Then when are we going to have this talk, Dean?”

 

“I don’t know, Sam, let’s try never? Even if I was going to talk about something-which I’m not-it wouldn’t be in the middle of a graveyard while a stuck vamp is eavesdropping.”

 

“Oh, c’mon, Dean, who is it gonna tell? It’s not like it’s getting out of here alive. Or undead. Whatever. Think of it as a...temporary stay of execution.”

 

You get the feeling this is going to take a while, and pillow your temple on the heel of your left hand. Might as well get comfortable.

 

“Look, Sam. I told you last year. The things I did...there’s nothing righteous about me. Cas is wrong.” He spins the machete in his hand, and bits of grass are struck down with every spin past his ankle. “I came, I saw, I tortured, I got my ass dragged up and clawed my way out of a little pine box. I just had a bit more luck than the Anne Rice wannabe over here.”

 

“Anne Rice is the author.”

 

“What the fuck ever, Sam. The point is, there’s nothing left to say.”

 

“Dean, you were tortured too.”

 

“Sam--”

 

“Shut the hell up and listen to me. You think I don’t notice? Do you really think that I can’t see that you’re trying to outdo Dad’s liver damage at half his age? That I haven’t seen how you flinch every time a dog barks, even if it’s a fucking yorkie?” He pulls too long fingers through his too long hair and paces closer to you. You can smell the cloud of his cheap laundry detergent as he spins on his heel. “You’re not okay, Dean. Not even a little bit. And you haven’t been for a long time.”

 

“I’m fine, Sammy. Can we just gank this fucker and get out of here? I’m freezing my nuts off.”

 

“Goddammit, Dean! You. Are. Not. Fine. At best you’re showing signs of anxiety and depression. At worst, PTSD. You need help, Dean. Just...just talk to me. You’re my brother.”

 

Ah. That explains the matching scowls, then.

 

“I don’t need help.”

 

“I do,” you say without thinking.

 

“Shut up,” they respond in unison.

 

The tall one’s chin begins to tremble, and his nostrils flare alarmingly. He looks a bit like a spooked horse. “Dean, this could kill you. Don’t make me go through that again.”

 

“You’d survive,” Dean says. His jaw is clenched so tight it’s a wonder he managed to form words at all.

 

“No, I wouldn’t.”

 

Dean hefts the blade in his hand again, and meets your eyes. “Well, I suppose that makes three of us.”

 

Wind whistles through the serration of the blade near the grip. A featherlight stroke of cold against your throat. And then...nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. This went in a vastly different direction than I intended when this idea first drifted through my brain. It is loosely inspired from a scene from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.


End file.
